


hang them high

by Emeka



Series: mega-fucked stuff [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Guro, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Necrophilia, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: It's time for his final duty.





	hang them high

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat_Face](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Face/gifts).



The man in the robe comes for him as he has for them all, one by one over the years. The boy keeps his gaze lowered to the stone beneath his knees. All he ever sees is the man's shoes, and the riffling of the robe as he walks. 

He doesn't need to look up to know what is expected of him. He stands unsteadily, knees shaking with fear. Time to follow, and perform his last task. This will be his final breaths in this room.

The man does not immediately leave. It feels like he's looking him over, and mentally clucking his failure at what a disappointment he has been. It's true enough, the boy knows. The others bore their trials with beauty and grace; their tears made them look brave, their missing limbs heroic. Their voices were sweet as they cried.

He looks like a snotty pig when he's upset, whines at the smallest irritation, and became so badly infected after the removal of his arm from the elbow down the whole thing had to come off. His voice so annoyed the man that he cut his throat open and decided he was better off without it.

Perhaps he can redeem himself at last. Anything's possible.

The man finally turns on his heel, his whole attitude brisk and impatient. The boy's heart falls but he follows obediently. He should at least give him a chance before writing him off.

He follows him through hall after hall, his bare, mismatched toes quickly numbing. Still he tries to look proud and solemn while keeping pace but every now and again he has to hobble to catch up. No one goes to the last room until it's their time, but he had hoped it would be closer than this. Instead it feels like they go miles down into the ground. 

The stone grows so cold his feet freeze and finally he loses whatever dignity he had and tumbles. The steps gnash into him like giant's teeth, bruising his ribs on his armless side and splitting his lip. It's over in an instant; just pain all over and now he's splayed on the landing, ass up like some presenting slattern. His front teeth squirm in their gums when he sucks his lips in in his effort to will the tears out of his eyes. Iron fills his mouth but he barely notices. He flounders in his immediate attempt to sit up--he tried to support himself on a hand he no longer has--flops on his ass, then rolls over to sit up from his knees again.

Even if he could verbally apologize, he's not sure he would. It'd just be rubbing in his incompetence. He bows instead, and allows his lip to drip off his chin. The man barely acknowledges him with a sigh before continuing.

Thankfully it is not so much farther from there. At what seems to be the lowest floor they came to a great wooden door. The chill is thick and well-insulated so low below. All of his bones ache. This must be it. The final test.

The man opens the door two-handed. A sweet, cold smell, like rotten winter, flows out with it.

The boy observes with envy all the beautiful corpses of those who came before. They hang from the ceiling like bagworms, purple-black and eyes like eggs over easy. Their flesh is so swollen the nooses make canyons in their necks. Most wriggle with indolent maggots, but one, who he recognizes as a drama case who couldn't bear being outshone, has also grown a fine mold. All bear patchy flakes and stains of something white between their buttocks and on their rotted genitals. He wonders if his corpse will be so distinguished-looking. Probably not, he admits dryly. A failure in life, a failure in death.

Finally his eyes alight on a stool set beneath a free noose. His own spot, set up for him.

The man follows shortly behind as he walks to it. The boy stands in front of it a moment. His heart is racing, his knees still trembling. The airy feeling in his stomach makes him nauseated. It feels more like stepping up onto a stage than a stool.

One foot, then the other. With a mixed feeling of regret and pride he sees the most beautiful bruise forming on his shin. It looks like a dotted raspberry. It's just too bad he won't be able to see all the colors coming in.

The noose dangles in front of him, slightly above his chin. It smells dusty but... clean. Pure. There's something nostalgic about it that reminds him of church pews and dust floating in beams of light. The rope rasps into his palms. He leans his weight forward to put his face into the hole and barely manages before stumbling off. His missing toes won't hold him so far.

There's no time for remorse for his final act of gracelessness, or the disappointed expression on the man's face. The noose catches tight beneath his jaw and demands all of his attention. He struggles despite himself and grabs at the noose but his display of ugliness lasts only ten seconds before he passes out.

The man watches him twitch and his face flourish with broken vessels over the next fifteen minutes as death sets in. Perhaps he asphyxiates, his heart gives out, or his brain dies--who's to say? Being hanged is just a race that not even the victim knows the winner of.

Shortly after, the man brings the corpse upstairs to season it a few days. Symmetric cuts line its arms for grace, and the belly and soft fat beneath are ripped through. Flies come and nest undisturbed. But very soon after its rot begins his neck gives in to the noose and the boy, as useless as ever, falls and scatters his innards all over the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> < 3


End file.
